Predictable
by CaptainBellarkeSwan
Summary: Sherlock was never one for predictability, but The Woman was something else.


**A drabble that somehow turned into a one-shot. This idea bugged me when I had lots of exams. I have no idea how exams could give inspiration to write. Anyway, this is probably smutty considering I don't really write smut. I tried. Please bear with me!**

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Sherlock was never one for predictability.

In the business of crime and murders, predictability was common. Petty theft, poorly-constructed alibis, unskilled murders. They all follow a certain pattern that bore him to death. He doesn't even have to be at the crime scene to know what happened.

He always leaves it to Lestrade, not meaning any offense to his old friend. He remembered back when John still questioned his "heart". He would ask why he would refuse those kinds of cases. Sherlock would reply but back then John wouldn't have understood anyway.

He discovered this dislike for predictability started when he was still young. He was playing with his friend Redbeard. At first, it had been fun, playing pirates and chasing each other. Then he soon found himself getting tired faster and faster with each time Redbeard asked to play the same games. When he got home, he'd realize he wasn't really physically as tired as he was feeling.

It became more evident during his days at school. It always seemed as if he couldn't last the day without being sent out of the classroom. Apparently, asking the teacher to move on to the next topic and asking to remove exams from the curriculum was considered disrespectful. His parents resolved the problem by switching him to home school which was a good decision. In no time he was taking secondary level subjects while other children his age were still at algebra and basic sciences.

It was clear to him that predictability was something he disliked. It was dull and idiotic of other people to live and to enjoy in a world full of predictable outcomes.

He hated it.

So it came to him as a shock when The Woman came into the picture.

Oh, she was far from predictable. In fact, she had surprised him more times than any other people had. It wasn't just in what her actions were but also what she could do to him, what she could make him do.

However this, whatever that was between them, was.

The lock clicked, and his heart suddenly beat faster in his chest. He took one deep breath before turning the knob, the faint smell of her perfume hitting his nose. The sunlight spilling from the windows in the room blinded him momentarily.

"Fifteen minutes and thirty three seconds."

Blinking to clear the spots in his vision, he found her sitting in the middle of the room, wearing a simple black dress, arms and legs crossed in a daunting manner. Her hair tumbled down over one shoulder in waves. Her eyes filled with teasing twinkled in the bright room.

"Traffic." he reasoned.

A low laugh left her lips, making him feel different on the inside.

"Playing the blame game now, aren't we?"

He had once spent time cataloging every freckle on her pale skin, every soft spot that would increase her pulse, every reaction he could coax out of her. And he perfectly knew that if he played along, her pupils would dilate and her pulse would quicken.

"What will you do about it, Ms. Adler?"

There it was. The black of her eyes swallowed the blue as her breaths grew shallower.

It was unclear who moved first. Sherlock decided both of them did simultaneously. His hands quickly found her waist just as hers wrapped around his shoulders. He knew that if he pressed his body flushed against hers, she'd arch her back with a small purr falling from her lips.

He knew that if he bit lightly on her lower lip and if his tongue rolled over to soothe it, she'd gasp and her grip on his arms would tighten, her nails digging onto his skin.

He knew that if he touched that spot beside her ear with his lips and if he traced his tongue along the line of her jaw, she'd tilt her head to give him more access, her chest heaving against his.

He knew that if he continued to trace the soft curves of her body with his fingers, tongue and lips moving lower and lower until the junction between her thighs, she'd writhe under him, moans and sighs spilling out of her mouth.

He knew that if he pressed his lips against her wet core, she'd throw out a moan very much like the one on his phone except it would sound more alive, more breathless.

He knew that if they joined together, she'd kiss him ferociously, her tongue and the feel of her making him dizzy with want. If he found that spot inside of her, she'd gasp with every deep thrust of his hips against hers. Her nails would dig against his back, her other hand tugging on his hair. She'd breathe against his cheek, rising to whisper into his ear begging him to go faster, to go harder. She'd soon roll them over so that she was on top bouncing against his thighs, her arms beside his head, her dark hair shielding them in their own personal bubble as they stared at each other with their eyes blown wide.

He knew that if he reached for the bundle of nerves just by where they were joined, she'd arch her back, her hands running down her body in a teasing manner.

He knew that if he drove her to the edge, she throw her head back in a shattered moan, the muscles on her body taut as she rode out waves of pleasure, her fingers would blindly grasp for anything to hang onto until she fell back down onto him, her body limp in the heat of pleasure.

He perfectly knew all of those. He perfectly knew all the small details that would point to another detail in what should be perfunctory and predictable, yet he found it so alluring and appealing to him in a manner he did not understand.

"Stop thinking." she breathed against his heaving chest.

A small smile crept to his lips as he wrapped his arm around her waist. She snuggled into him, resting her head on his shoulder and he pulled her closer, reveling in the feel of her smooth skin brushing against his. The telltale signs of sleep was evident as her eyes threatened to droop. He found himself watching her carefully, taking note of every twitch of her lips, every sigh as she shifted against him, every flutter of her eyelashes, until she finally fell into a dreamless slumber.

Yes, he did not understand.

Sherlock was never one for predictability.

But in the arms of The Woman he didn't mind that at all.

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 **This could possibly turn into a series. Possibly. I'm not sure, but there's a companion piece to this. I'll post it when I'm done with it. Stay tuned!**


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